


i just wanted you to know (that this is me trying)

by tazziebubbles



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Body Image, But not as fluffy rip, Disordered Eating, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Exercise Addiction, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve is worried, avengers tower fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28731363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazziebubbles/pseuds/tazziebubbles
Summary: It starts out with a diet.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	i just wanted you to know (that this is me trying)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! :D A few disclaimers for this fic:
> 
> 1) Please, please heed the tags! This fic very explicitly details disordered eating, eating disorders and exercise addiction, if that's a trigger to you, please be safe and click to something else if you have to. 
> 
> 2) This is 100% me projecting my own experiences and feelings (except, adapted, because I’m a teenage girl lol.) If this isn't doesn't align with your personal experiences, that's totally fine! But I'd prefer if you didn't leave negativity about it.

It starts out with a diet. 

Tony knows he’s in a healthy weight range for a man of his height and age, JARVIS has made sure to inform him of that fact on multiple occasions, but he sees a photo in the press that captures him at a particular angle and hey, he’s not getting any younger here, so he gets the idea in his head that he should lose a few pounds, just to make sure he’s still got it. 

No big deal. 

In fact, it’s such a _non-issue_ that he casually mentions it to Steve one night, while they’re twisted up together in bedsheets after an exhausting day for both of them, Avengers-wise and press-wise. 

An adorable little frown creases Steve’s forehead as he rests his chin atop Tony’s chest, peering up at him with earnest blue eyes. 

“I think you look great. You keep up with the rest of us during training just fine, even though you don’t use a lotta hand-to-hand out on the field. There’s nothing to fix.” 

Tony rolls his eyes, giving his cheek a playful flick. “Can’t a guy better himself without his boyfriend getting all sentimental on him?” 

Steve shifts back onto his knees, hands landing on either side of Tony’s head as he leans in, hovers over him. Tony trails a hand up his side, can’t help it, really, fingers brushing along warm skin and settling somewhere around the slight jut of Steve’s hip. 

“You know I’m all for self-improvement—“

Tony snorts. “Understatement of the year.”

“—But you’re healthy,” Steve continues, in the earnest-yet-sincere way only he can manage.

“Could be healthier,” Tony counters. 

The furrow returns to Steve’s eyebrows. Tony reaches up to smooth his thumb over the crease it creates. A sigh escapes Steve’s lips and he dips down, nuzzles into the space along the juncture of Tony’s neck, right where he dabs his cologne in the morning. He lingers there for a moment before drawing back so that they’re face to face, so close that their breaths mingle in the space between them, that Tony can feel each exhale against his parted lips.

“Just don’t overdo it,” Steve murmurs.

 _Easy_ , thinks Tony. 

He doesn’t say a word though, just surges up to connect their lips.

* * *

He logs his calories with JARVIS, takes into account his general activity level. He _is_ pretty on-his-feet most days, even if the Avengers like to joke that he’s a bit of a recluse sometimes. They’re not entirely wrong. 

JARVIS calculates an appropriate calorie deficit. It’ll take about four weeks to sustainably lose the handful of pounds he wants to lose, with the least amount of damage to his body. He’s always been relatively conscious of eating balanced meals, despite his weakness for cheeseburgers and his occasional stints with alcohol — it’s just sort of how the cookie crumbles as you age — so he keeps in line with what he normally eats and logs it, makes sure he’s not going over. Simple as that. JARVIS takes a lot of the hassle out of it too, so it doesn’t even take up a whole lot of his precious time. 

He feels almost irrationally elated when he steps onto the scale after a week and finds that he’s on track, finds that he’s lost a pound. He stares at the reduced number for what’s probably a shade too long, before snapping out of it and stepping off the scale, a lightness in his step as he exits the bathroom and tugs his shirt up over his head. Steve is sprawled out across their dark bedcovers, broad, pale chest on display. He looks up when he hears Tony enter, a smile curving his lips.

“Hey. I was starting to think I’d have to check up on you.” 

Tony blinks as he shimmies out of his jeans, approaching their drawers for a pair of pajama pants. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You went silent for a while,” Steve elaborates, a curiously intent glint in his eye as he regards him. 

Maybe he’d stared for longer than he thought he had. 

Tony doesn’t shy away from Steve’s lingering gaze, just throws him a lazy smile as he tugs up the pair of Captain America pajama pants that Clint had bought for him as a joke. The Avengers never seem to learn of the unbounded _delight_ Tony has for trashy novelty Captain America merchandise, and that at this rate, they’re not even joke gifts. They’re _actual_ gifts. 

“Oh, you know, just contemplating. Happens sometimes.” 

A teasing smile tugs at Steve’s lips. “Oh, I know. The amount of times you’ve randomly yelled out the solution to an equation I didn’t even _know_ you were thinking about.” 

“Like I always say—“

“There is no off switch for your brain,” Steve parrots drily.

Tony stops in his tracks, raising a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Am I becoming predictable? Oh, I am _so_ becoming predictable. This is like, literally my worst nightmare.” 

The bed dips a little as he settles beside Steve, shifting to get comfortable before allowing himself to be drawn into the circle of his arms. He reclines his head back against the broad expanse of Steve’s chest, relishes in the steady thrum of his heart, the perpetual warmth of his skin. 

“I like it when you’re predictable,” Steve murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

Tony laughs, but it’s gentle, overwhelming fondness seeping into it. “Don’t tell me. It’s gotta be something sappy, so I’m putting my money on ‘because it means I’m comfortable around you.’” 

“That too,” Steve admits, nosing along his hairline, “but it also means you’re not wearing one of those masks you love so much.”

He grins. “You don’t like my masks? But I work so hard on them, honey.” 

“I like _you_ ,” says Steve, and Tony _really_ rolls his eyes then, despite the warmth that settles inside his chest, simmers beneath his skin. 

He swivels around in Steve’s arms, unable to keep from softening in the face of the grin that greets him. He leans in and presses a few chaste kisses to Steve’s lips, before letting them linger, letting his lips move against Steve’s in a lazy exploration of familiar territory. 

He thinks Steve gets the point he’s trying to make. 

That is — he likes him too. 

* * *

Tony weighs himself once during the first week, twice during the second week, four times during the third week, and six times during the fourth week. It’s an indescribable rush, to see the number that stares back at him lower than the last time, even by the smallest fraction. He feels lighter, he feels more energetic, he feels accomplished, he feels...he feels _in control._

By the time four weeks is over he doesn’t miss logging a single meal, it’s always niggling at the back of his mind. He refuses the treats Bucky likes to bake in his spare time, and he feels a dizzying sense of control flow through his veins for just a split second, feels an almost delirious sense of pride flood his system. 

He has an addictive personality, he’ll be the first to admit that. He has more complexes than he can count, especially when it comes to control. But this is a _good_ kind of control, the kind of control that’s black and white, he can either accept the treat or refuse it, he can either stick to his calorie limit or go over it, and he never does. There’s a hard pass or fail involved, it’s not fuzzy and grey and debatable, like decisions on the field often are. 

He stands in front of their obscenely large bathroom mirror and stares, tan skin a counterpoint to the rest of their sleek marble bathroom. The changes are minute, a few more hints of sharpness along his jawline, his stomach far less bloated, which throws his abdominal muscles into sharper relief than usual. 

But the _feeling_. Oh, the feeling. 

He stands with his bare feet against the cold tiles until he starts seeing room for improvement, starts taking note of places along his body that he hadn’t noticed before, areas that stick out, areas where the muscle doesn’t quite shine through enough, where they aren’t defined. A hand comes up almost on autopilot, pinches some of the softness between his fingers. He hastily returns it to his side when he realises what he’s doing. 

“Tony?” he hears from the bedroom.

“I’ll be out in a minute, honeybunch!” 

He pulls his shirt back down and reaches for his toothbrush. 

He’d only meant to wash his hands. 

* * *

Tony has hated looking at his reflection for a good number of years, for a tangled mess of reasons that a therapist could probably have a field day with. He doesn’t like to see the man that peers back at him, doesn’t like to be confronted by the past mistakes that jump out at him. 

Now, though. Now he can’t _stop_ staring. The reflective surfaces of his lab, storefront windows, his phone’s dead screen, the bathroom mirror. He lingers without meaning to, scrutinises and takes apart and checks, checks to make sure the pounds he lost hadn’t returned to his face. It’s just a precaution, he reasons, so that his work isn’t undone. He knows the exact way his stomach looks when he sits down, has categorised the myriad of ways his jawline appears from different angles. He gets lost in thought about what Steve sees when he looks at him, what the Avengers see what they look at him, what passers-by see when they look at him.

He goes back to eating a regular amount of food, and feels oddly bereft when he doesn’t log the ingredients he uses afterward. Inexplicable anxiety claws at his chest when he realises he can’t calculate the amount of calories on his plate just from a glance, hadn’t gotten that far in memorising quite yet. His limbs feel heavy, weighted down, his stomach feels achingly full, even though the deficit he’d been running hadn’t been all that significant, so really, he _shouldn’t_ be feeling full, not after what he’s eaten. 

Steve cooks them both dinner one night, and Tony sits atop the polished kitchen countertop, babbling away about his most recent SI project. He takes note of the olive oil that Steve drizzles in the pan, estimates it to be about two teaspoons, takes note of the spices that he adds, two teaspoons of each, the specific brand of canned tomatoes that he mixes in, how that all adds to the total—

“Tony?” 

He hums questioningly, prying his eyes away from the pan and meeting Steve’s mildly concerned gaze. 

“You sort of cut off for a bit there.” 

“Did I? Could’ve sworn I was talking out loud,” he says. 

Steve eyes him for a moment before nodding and returning to the pan, “I mean, I sort of lost track of what you were saying before that,” he admits sheepishly, “but it’s nice to hear your voice.” 

It really strikes Tony sometimes, just how much Steve wears his heart on his sleeve with the people he trusts. He’ll casually mention things that make Tony’s heart leap inside his chest, heartfelt admissions that float in the air, like they roll of Steve’s tongue with ease. He doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to Steve’s specific brand of sincerity in all of its bashful yet earnest glory, is not quite sure he deserves it, really, but he appreciates it all the same, despite his token protests and his snarky autopilot responses.

He picks up right where he left off and carefully keeps his eyes away from the pan, away from the extra teaspoon or so of olive oil that Steve drizzles into it. 

* * *

“Tony, looking great buddy! Looks like you’ve put on a few pounds, though. Nothing that can’t be fixed before Thanksgiving, am I right?” 

Ice races through Tony’s veins, gathers in his chest and tightens in his throat, makes his breaths come out in short, sharp puffs. He’s had his body scrutinised inside and out by the press, it’s just sort of part and parcel when it comes to being a public figure, and he’s never spared it much thought, had certainly never agonised over their opinions of him or his body. 

But _this_ , from an old MIT associate, accompanied by a playful elbow to his side, for some reason it feels like he’s been sucker-punched, and he can’t shake it off like he normally does, can’t smile and return the snark easier than breathing. 

He’d _lost_ weight. 

He hadn’t put it on. 

Was that not apparent? 

He catches sight of his transculent reflection in the polished marble counter, all done up in charcoal-grey, which he curses inwardly as he struggles to get a good view of himself. He inclines his head just so, so that he can glimpse himself in the full-length window to his right, which is when he feels a hand press gently into the small of his back, a large palm that he recognises instantly, that sends warmth flowing through him. 

“Can I steal Tony for a minute?” Steve asks, voice practically dripping with courtesy. 

Tony doesn’t quite catch the answer through the buzzing static that fills every corner of his brain, the pinpricks of shame that gather in his chest as the reality of the situation slams into him. 

He’d lost it over a passing comment. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks him, once they’re away from the thick of it all, warm evening breeze gusting in through a nearby open window. His voice is all low, rumbly, concerned, and Tony can hardly stand it.

“I’m fine,” he says, “what isn’t giving you the impression that I’m fine?” 

“Well, for starters, the way you froze up back there,” Steve says evenly, eyebrows raised a little. 

Tony’s gaze flicks toward the man without his conscious say-so. In his peripheral vision he catches Steve do the same. 

“Did he say something?” Steve asks, and there’s a note of protectiveness wound through his tone that has Tony’s heart clenching. 

“Now, now, cupcake, no need to go all saviour complex on me. I’m just tired, must’ve blanked out for a bit. No big deal.” 

It’s not a lie, exactly. 

Steve considers this for a moment before relenting with a small nod. “I’m here,” he reminds him. 

“Yeah you are,” Tony agrees, dropping his voice to a heated murmur as he smooths his hands along Steve’s back, feels the muscles jump just slightly beneath the layers of fabric.

Steve captures his hands, intertwining their fingers and raining a few kisses along each of Tony’s knuckles. That’s the problem when someone knows you; they see right through you. Steve always seems to know when he needs gentleness, before Tony can even let _himself_ need it. 

“I’m here,” he says again, and it’s clear to both of them what he means.

Tony nods minutely. 

Not one word escapes his lips in return, but Steve seems satisfied regardless as they re-join the buzzing crowds, giving Tony’s hand a brief squeeze. 

* * *

Two weeks trickle by. 

Every time he enters the bathroom, the scales sit there mockingly, they goad him into checking, into making sure that he hasn’t regained any of the weight. 

He starts checking the nutritional panel for cereal boxes, for protein bars, for just about anything that enters his body, _out of curiosity,_ he tells Steve. He feels an odd amount of horror that just how small the serving sizes are, at just how many calories had gone into his body unnoticed. 

He swaps out his usual foods for health foods where he can, for low-sugar, for low-carb, for all-natural and organic. He swaps out peanut butter for almond butter, swaps out his usual snacks for celery and baby carrots, throws out his bag of trail mix. 

The Avengers smile and poke fun at him for being one of those health-freaks, Tony pokes fun right back and tells them they’ll need to start doing it too, soon enough, _and is that a grey hair I see, Barton?_

Steve tries one of his green smoothies and nearly spits it out. 

“That,” he says, “feels like it shouldn’t be edible.” 

“It’s spirinula and kale and vegan protein powder,” Tony informs him cheerfully. 

Steve looks at him like he’s speaking another language. 

It _does_ taste bad, Tony will admit that, but the rush always makes up for it, the satisfaction that crashes down over him in waves each time the Avengers eye one of his meals, each time he says no to their food, each time he goes to bed feeling lighter than he did that morning. 

He’s concerned about his health, that’s all. 

It’s not because eating separate food ensures he knows exactly what goes into it, it’s not because healthy eating gives him one hell of a pretense when it comes to preparing his own food and refusing their calorically-dense creations. 

There’s nothing wrong with trying to be healthy.

* * *

Tony has been known to forget about food some days, when he’s _really_ caught up. It isn’t nearly as often as the Avengers like to joke it is, but it does happen. 

Outside his workshop, the sun is lowering down toward the horizon, reds and oranges streak the Manhattan skyline, staining the wispy clouds in various shades of colour. 

He realises with a jolt that he hasn’t eaten all day, not a single thing. 

Instead of taking a break, though, instead of wandering up to the kitchen he shares with Steve, he just...doesn’t. He dives head-first into work and feels a twisted sense of satisfaction in how empty his stomach feels, how he’s pushing himself despite that, how he’s... 

No, he thinks, he’s not hurting himself. What’s one day, anyway? Plenty of people forget to eat for one day. No one’s perfect. 

The sky has darkened to a deep blue by the time Steve enters the workshop, flushed from a post-workout shower, eyes bright as they land on Tony. 

“Hey. We’re having a late dinner, are you close to wrapping up here?” 

The thought of eating right now has nausea churning in his gut for a reason he can’t pinpoint, hot and sharp and unfathomably suffocating. 

“I’m almost done,” he confirms, “but, uh, I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts today. Think I’ll skip out on dinner.” 

He hears more than he sees Steve approach, feels the strong arms that wind around his torso, feels the solid chest that he’s drawn back into. 

“Sick, you mean?” 

Tony nods. His heart is beating so rapidly that he’s surprised it hasn’t burst right of his chest yet, he can hear the echo of it in his ears and feel the thrum of it in his head. 

“Well, take it easy. I can bring you up some water, maybe? Think we have some anti-nausea stuff laying around too.” 

“That’d be—great,” he says, turning in the circle of Steve’s arms. He doesn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention by being difficult. 

“You do look a little pale,” Steve observes, brushing his knuckles gently along the side of his face. He wonders if Steve notices the cheekbones that don’t jump out at him. He wonders if he can feel the soft areas on his back as he runs his hand along them, wonders if he notices that Tony isn’t as defined as he is, in all his perfectly sculpted glory. 

He presses a kiss to Tony’s temple before stepping back. 

“You should get to bed. I’ll be up in a minute, alright?” 

He exits the workshop. The door slides shut behind him with a resounding, echoing thud. 

His reflection stares back at him. He looks away before it starts asking him why he lied. 

“Sir, if I may, you haven’t eaten all day, I’m sure if Captain Rogers—“

“Mute, JARVIS.” 

He has a privacy protocol to install. 

* * *

“Looks like someone’s regained their appetite.” 

It’s warm, affectionate, obviously teasing. Steve looks at him from across the breakfast table with thinly-veiled relief etched into his features, in the slight furrow of his eyebrows, in the fingers that won’t stop rapping against the hardwood table. 

Tony stills, looks down at the remains of the waffles he’d scarfed down in an overwhelming moment of weakness, the sugary sweet syrup an incriminating smear across the pale ceramic of his plate. His stomach churns. 

“Yeah, that was Thor-level eating, I’m honestly impressed,” says Clint, a teasing smile painted across his face. 

A few more gazes land on him from around the table. He feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, feels so jittery that he might just shake apart. 

A pricklingly hot feeling of shame washes down his spine. 

He’s over-eaten before. Everyone does, it’s just a part of life, occasionally eating more than you can handle, for a variety of reasons. 

This time, it doesn’t just _physically_ make him feel ill, it makes his mind feel like it’s going to burn up with all the thoughts racing through it, an endless tailspin of panic and dread and horror that tangle up inside his chest, refusing to dissolve despite his best efforts. 

He smiles, points a playfully accusatory finger. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about those family-sized pizzas, Birdbrain.” 

Clint groans. “Are you guys ever gonna let that go? I was _hungry_ , okay?” 

A few snickers sound around the table. 

Attention successfully deflected, Tony goes back to picking at his remaining waffle and internally running through what Steve normally uses in the batter, as exact as he can get it. 

* * *

He steps onto the scale five separate times, takes off his boxers, takes off his necklace, reboots it a few times, checks for faults. 

The number remains unwaveringly the same.

Two extra pounds. 

How did that happen? After _one day?_

He knows the science behind it, he knows the logic, he knows about water retention and he knows how the body responds to a temporary surplus in calories.

But it doesn’t dissolve the tightness in his throat, the dread that twists itself into knots inside his stomach, it doesn’t keep the sudden onslaught of tears from stinging at his eyes. 

_Why is he tearing up?_

It’s only two pounds. Two pounds that’ll probably even out, as his body deals with the extra calories from today.

He knows that, rationally. 

This isn’t rational, though. It’s abject _horror_ , it’s staring into his bathroom mirror and scrutinising his entire body, it’s losing track of the minutes that go by as he tries to find where those two pounds could’ve gone. 

His stomach looks bloated. He knows the science behind that too. Not being able to clearly see the muscle beneath it still _kills_ him though, needles at him and needles at him and _needles_ at him. 

He doesn’t know when or how he’d grown to care so much. But he _hates_ this feeling. 

He installs a calorie-tracking app on his phone and restricts JARVIS’ access, moves it to a locked folder that only he knows the login details for. 

He keeps his shirt on that night. 

Steve, sleep-warm and hazy, relaxes against Tony’s chest when Tony wraps his arms around his waist. 

“Mhm. Aren’t you warm?” he mumbles. 

“Not really,” he whispers, “go back to sleep, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

He _is_ warm, but that’s okay. 

Steve nods lethargically and snuffles into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut once more. 

* * *

He starts out in a small deficit. 

He’s just trying to lose the two pounds, that’s all. 

He logs his meals for a week, he uses kitchen scales and measuring cups and feels irrational panic tighten in his chest each time team dinner rolls around. A different team member cooks each night, which leaves him with only one day a week where he knows exactly what’s going into the dinner. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself by making separate meals anymore, but he can’t keep on guesstimating the ingredients and the oil and the spices that go into each dish, logging it and hoping desperately that it’s accurate. So. He develops a couple of strategies. 

Some days, he’ll casually inquire what a specific team member is making that night, ask for the recipe if he’s brave enough, and then he’ll look up the ingredients, and he’ll sneak into the kitchen like a man on a mission so that he can scan them and log them. 

Other days, when he’s too caught up in SI or Avengers business to put aside valuable time like that, he’ll guess the ingredients but over-estimate the calories, make sure to have the smallest possible portion without alerting the others. It’s a delicate balancing act, keeping track of every calorie that passes his lips while keeping up the pretense of regular-old sporadic eating, eating without thinking about it. 

He looks at a plate of lasagna and the calculations race through his head, what went into the sauces, the exact number of grams that were in the ground beef packet Clint used, the estimated ratio of carbs and fats and proteins, the calorie totals he’s memorised like the back of his hand, takes into account the average amount of oil that Clint uses for cooking, that surely must’ve gone into the beef. 

When the team orders in, he suggests takeaway joints that clearly list their caloric totals and scrutinises each option until he finds something that’ll fit into his daily calorie intake without drawing unnecessary attention to himself. 

“Tony Stark, not ordering a cheeseburger from a cheeseburger joint? What has the world come to?” Bucky asks, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. 

“I’m expanding my horizons, Robocop,” he replies easily, “maybe you should try it sometime.” 

Sam snags a wedge from Tony’s plate and pops it into his mouth. 

“Shit. That _is_ good. Maybe he’s onto something here, guys.” 

Tony grins broadly, irrationally happy that he didn’t have to eat that wedge. 

“I’m _always_ onto something,” he says. 

He looks down at his wedges, sour cream and chilli sauce on the side, paired with a salad, dressing and croutons on the side. 

Tony Stark is a lot of things, depending on who you ask. 

He’s always liked to think that he’s a quick learner. 

* * *

He keeps track of every single lie he tells about foods he supposedly doesn’t like, just to get out of eating them. They’re jotpointed in a locked note on his phone, because although he has it memorised, he doesn’t trust himself to keep everything straight. Not this time. 

* * *

Tony is a pretty active person, he works out in the communal gym several times a week, not including the team sparring sessions and the calls to assemble. 

When the number on the scale remains static between one day and the next, he finds that increasing his calorie deficit isn’t enough to satisfy the dread that hangs over his shoulders. 

He ventures down to the gym between projects and does his usual strength training, ignores the fact that it feels just slightly more difficult than usual, that his breaths start coming out in short, sharp puffs a bit quicker than usual. 

He hops on the treadmill and sets it to a high setting right off the bat, takes pleasure in the way his lungs burn and his chest heaves and his muscles ache, imagines himself cutting right through those two pesky pounds. 

He adds thirty minutes to his regular workout. 

It’s always good to challenge yourself, he reasons. 

* * *

Sam offers him a single grape from his fruit bowl. 

Tony logs it as forty calories immediately after he eats it, just to be safe. 

* * *

He loses the two pounds after a week. 

A thrill runs down his spine at having set out to do something, at having actually achieved it as planned. At having _control_. 

He lifts his shirt almost every time he enters the bathroom, scrutinises his stomach and his arms and his back, tenses and un-tenses his muscles, stands up on the edge of the bathtub to get a full view of his body, looks and looks and _looks_ until he starts noticing the angles that make him look too round, starts noticing areas that stubbornly refuse to go down, where the muscle definition isn’t enough, areas that he’s surprised Steve hasn’t noticed yet. 

Maybe he _has_ noticed.

Maybe he notices every time he has Tony shirtless in his bed, every time Tony shifts to grab something from the bedside table, every time Tony doubles over with loud, uninhibited laughter. 

He brings up an article on his phone that compares his twenties-body with his current body, reads it over and over until his eyes burn and sting from staring at the screen in his darkened bathroom, until his hands tremble where the pale light washes over them. 

He sets his calorie goal lower. 

* * *

“Are you still trying to lose weight?” 

Tony blinks up at him. 

“What gives you that impression?” 

It’s a quarter to eleven and the sky is a canvas of black outside Tony’s room, illuminated by a warm lamp and nothing more. Steve hovers over him, fingers twisted up in the bedsheets on either side of his chest. His hair is a little longer than usual, golden strands hanging down as he peers at Tony with those perceptive blue eyes that reflect the city lights through the window. He watches as the colours play over his face in rapid motion, watches as he shifts back onto his haunches and regards Tony, lips turned down into the slightest frown. 

“The scale,” he says, “it’s in a slightly different place each time I go into the bathroom.” 

“You know, I didn’t realise I was dating Sherlock Holmes, but I have to say, it’s not an unappealing thought.” 

Steve’s eyes spark in that same way they always do when he understands a reference that Tony makes. 

“Are you?” he presses, instead of replying.

“Even if I was, why would it be such a bad thing?” he asks casually, linking his fingers behind his head and leaning back into the pillow, slow, lazy, _measured_. 

“It’s just,” Steve flounders for a moment, “you’re healthy. You look good.” 

“Yeah? Well why don’t you show me how good you think I look, then, big guy?” 

Steve leans in again, eyes roaming Tony’s face like he’s getting lost, like Tony is something worth getting lost in, which is a nice fantasy. 

“Just—remember what I said about not overdoing it,” Steve tells him, voice low. 

“You just like feeding me,” Tony accuses, trailing his hands along his shoulders, resting them on the sides of Steve’s face. 

And, well, it’s sort of true. It’s not like Steve goes out his way to _overfeed_ him, per se, but he does like to cook for him, does like to share food with him. Tony thinks it has something to do with growing up during the Depression, during an era of food rations, where sharing food must’ve been almost intrinsically tied to affection, to showing friends and family that you cared about them, that you were looking after them.

“Maybe I do,” Steve admits, after a beat or two, with one of those horrible half-smiles that ring out hollow, “but that has nothing to do with this.” 

Tony hauls him in for a kiss. After a moment’s hesitation, Steve melts into it. 

* * *

JARVIS informs him that based on his calculations, he’s not eating enough calories for a man of his height and weight, even for one that’s trying to lose weight. He warns him that this is unsustainable. 

Tony creates a protocol that enables him to restrict JARVIS from making specific comments about his eating habits. 

* * *

Another two weeks go by. 

Every day, he adds fifteen minutes to his workout, scared shitless that his progress will unravel if he doesn’t keep upping it, scared that his muscles will begin to deteriorate as he purposely overestimates his calories, lowers his total just feel the sick sense of satisfaction that washes down his spine each time he lays eyes on that number on his phone screen. 

It’s nothing compared to the rush he feels when his app informs him that his calorie goal is too low for a man of his height and age, that the amount of weight he’ll lose in a short period of time is unhealthy. 

Punishing his body for every time he’s lost control in his life, every time he’s made a mistake that cost lives, every glaring imperfection that stares back at him from the mirror, every worried glance that Steve sends his way, all under the guise of healthy eating, it’s just, irrevocably _addicting_. 

And he _knows_ it’s horrible, deep down, he really does. 

Panic overwhelms him each time he nears his calorie limit, each time Steve’s eyes linger on him when he scrutinises his dinner before eating it, each time the Avengers suggest ordering in, and he has to scramble to figure out what to order, think through and rationalize what was once an easy, off-the-cuff decision. 

When Steve suggests they go out somewhere for dinner, he doesn’t look forward to spending time with him, to the gelato they like to get afterward from their favourite store, he _dreads_ not being able to calculate the exact amount of calories that will be in his meal, he spends an inordinate amount of time pondering whether it’ll be too risky to order gelato in a cup, just so he can cut down on calories from the cone. 

He doesn’t eat that day.

On the car ride, where he would usually be making conversation, he googles the amount of the calories that toothpaste contains, mulls over whether he should include it in his daily totals, _today_ even, from his morning brush. He googles the menu for the Italian restaurant they’re headed to, dread slamming into him when nothing, _nothing_ comes with a calorie total _._

Tony feels the overwhelming urge to tear his own hair out, to yell himself hoarse, to dig his fingernails into his skin until it bleeds. 

But, he’s always been a practical person, so instead, he loses himself in daydreams about how he’s going to make up for the food he’s going to eat, the exact exercises he’s going to perform and for how long, the exact foods he’s going to eat tomorrow, calorie totals and all, the dinner he’s going to make, because it’s his night tomorrow, and that means he can use water instead of oil while he’s cooking, that means he can log each and every ingredient, he can choose something that—

“Tony?” Steve asks him from the driver’s seat.

He focuses back on his surroundings, blinking when he realises they’ve come to a stop. Smooth jazz still plays on the radio, and Steve’s blue eyes shine with concern through the darkness of the underground parking lot, wide and almost... _panicked_.

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

Tony smiles. “Right as rain, honeybunch.” 

His stomach gurgles, and he can’t help but wince through a bout of sharp, aching hunger pangs. 

Steve shakes his head. “Have you eaten today?” 

He swallows once, twice, three times. “Of course I have. Had a light lunch, because I knew we’d be going out.” 

“Tony—“

He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car, clicking his fingers. “Waiting on you here, sweetcheeks.” 

Steve opens his mouth to say something but abruptly shuts it. 

He wraps an arm around Tony’s waist as they enter the restaurant. Tony feels dread surge in his chest, knowing that he can feel the softness there that just won’t budge no matter how much he works his sides. 

He drinks water religiously, to keep himself as full as possible before the meal, tears of frustration welling in his eyes when it doesn’t quite work, when the smell of garlicky bread hits his nose, and he can’t deny how _good_ it looks, all innocently stacked in a basket, like it isn’t _taunting_ him. Steve casually takes one as he talks, and Tony bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes coppery blood. He doesn’t know how he can eat so casually, how he can look at that bread and see anything but carbs and fat and calories. 

Because it’s not food, he reminds himself. 

No, it’s energy, it’s fuel, it’s a basic necessity, can be broken down into its very base components, can be _avoided_ , if he just had the determination, if he just had the resolve and the _control_. 

He picks up a slice of bread and nibbles at it. The garlicky flavour floods his tongue — it’d been about two months since he’d had regular old white bread — and despite the panic that thrashes in his chest at _knowing_ just how much empty calories it contains, he eats it, and he picks up another, and another, until they’ve finished the basket, conversation flowing between them.

When they get the menus, Tony’s eyes scan for anything with minimal ingredients, anything that could be reasonably low-calorie, heart stuttering in his chest when he realises that Steve is regarding him, blue eyes following the finger that Tony runs along the laminated paper. 

“See anything you like?” 

Tony almost wants to laugh. 

Anything he _likes?_

“Uh.” 

Wonderful. Great job, Tony. 

“Don’t you normally like the Linguine?” 

Tony presses his lips into a thin line. He can’t see the kitchen, he doesn’t know how much oil they add or how many ingredients they add. 

“I do,” he confirms, forcing his lips up into a smile, “you know, that might be good, maybe I’ll go with that.” 

Steve’s gaze flicks from Tony’s face down to his menu, where linguine stands out as clear as day, the first option under ‘pastas.’ Tony sucks in a breath and holds it, but Steve doesn’t say anything, just nods and returns to his menu. 

That night, he spends hours scrolling through reviews for appetite-suppressants, because he’s struggling to keep the hunger pangs at bay, and they’re starting to border on painful. 

He places an order and ensures it’ll be delivered to a secure location. 

* * *

He thinks of the linguine and the bread and the gelato he’d consumed the previous night, the uncounted calories that passed his lips, as he struggles through the fourth hour of his workout, limbs aching, muscles shaking violently, lungs blazing. The glass door before him presents him with a sorry reflection, presents him with the softness and roundness that clings stubbornly to his body, presents him with a million different reasons Steve has to be lying when he tells Tony that he finds him attractive. 

Desperation claws at his chest, tightens in his throat, hinders his breathing, because even now it’s not enough, he doesn’t think it’ll _ever_ be enough, he doesn’t think there will ever be any give, or any real satisfaction to any of this. He coughs his lungs up after a particularly brutal round on the treadmill, doubles over and heaves and tries to fight back the frustrated tears that sting at his eyes. 

Clint, who had previously ( _good-naturedly, Tony reminds himself_ ) poked fun at him for his extra time in the gym, tentatively approaches him and asks him whether he thinks he’s overdoing it. 

Tony moves his workouts to the private gym on his floor after that. 

* * *

The weeks drag on. 

Tony doesn’t feel light anymore, it’s devolved into echoing hollowness, into aching emptiness, like overwhelming fatigue has seeped into the very marrow of his bones and turned them to lead, exhausting him from the inside out, sapping him of his steam, of his energy. He lashes out without meaning to, particularly when people ask him if he’s feeling okay, he feels tears burn at his eyes for the most insignificant of reasons, he reduces his calories and _reduces_ them, exercises until his head pounds, but it doesn’t quell the sick urges that fog up his brain, consistently pull him away from the present with their fantasies and their idealism.

The rush he feels when he steps on the scale for the fifth time in one day feels hollow. 

Anxiety needles at him constantly, his brain muddied by thoughts of food, of what his next meal is going to be, how many calories it’s going to have, how he’s going to prepare it to ensure it has that exact number of calories, what his meals will be the following day, what his next suggestion for takeaway should be, what will ensure that he won’t near his calorie goal that day. It’s an endless cycle that feeds into itself, he feels like he’s in a tailspin on an endless icy road and he’s just barely keeping himself on track, just barely steering himself to safety.

He’s so, _so_ sick of it. 

He struggles to maintain focus on his projects, struggles to keep a clear head during missions, struggles to interact normally with the team with the thoughts that eat at him. 

He sinks to his knees on the bathroom floor, the grooves between the cold tiles digging into his skin. 

He’s terrified. 

He wants to stop.

It should be easy to stop.

But he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_. 

* * *

The appetite suppressants leave him heaving over a toilet bowl. 

He throws them out and orders another brand.

* * *

“Tony I’m not kidding when I say I need those specifications about _yesterday_ , the investors are haranguing me, and—“

“Hey, look, who needs investors anyway, if they can’t wait a day or two—“

“ _You_ need investors, _the company_ needs investors, _I_ need—are you okay?” 

Tony blinks as Pepper comes to a stand still, eyes locked on him. 

“I am _so_ unbelievably okay, and I’ll be even _more_ okay when those investors learn a modicum of patience,” he says, before pausing. “Why?” he adds. 

Pepper shakes her head. “You look pale.”

“Thank you, I think I look good too.”

She rolls her eyes, taps the papers she sets down on Tony’s desk. 

“Tomorrow,” she tells him, “and take a break when you’re done. That’s not a suggestion.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

The moment the workshop doors close behind her, Tony looks toward the holoscreen, fingers running through his hair and tugging desperately at the strands.

He’d already worked out today, but he was hoping to get a bit more in, even if it means staying up into the early hours of the morning. 

If only he could just _concentrate_. 

* * *

Steve is trailing kisses from Tony’s jaw down to his collarbone, feather-light, warm breath ghosting over his skin. He shifts and hums, languidly arching upwards, running an idle hand up and down Steve’s back, following the lines of muscle as they shift. It’s been a few days since they’d had a quiet moment like this, where the kisses don’t become heated, where they’re surrounded by relative quiet. Steve’s thighs bracket his legs, and he sits back with a smile. Tony’s thoughts are slow, hazy, and he feels a pleasant lightness all over, humming just underneath his skin. 

Then, a frown darkens Steve’s features. 

“You’re shivering,” he notes. 

“Am I?” he asks absently, attempting to chase Steve’s lips, but he just draws back further, eyebrows knitted together with worry. 

He’s constantly cold, and shivering has become a normal thing for him, something he can almost shove to the background. It’s another aspect of this whole thing that has sickening satisfaction roiling in his gut, the fact that it’s having tangible effects on his body. It _shouldn’t_ be satisfying, is the thing, he knows that on a deep, visceral level, he knows that this is all so painstakingly _wrong_ , but he can’t help it. 

“Are you cold?” Steve asks, “JARVIS has it set to the normal temperature.” 

“ _Maybe_ I’m shivering because I like what we had going there, and I’d like to get back to it.” 

Steve shakes his head, flicks his gaze toward the ceiling. “JARVIS, would you mind setting the temperature a few degrees higher?” 

“You’ll be hot,” Tony protests. 

He gets a flat look for his efforts. 

“You’re shivering, Tony.” 

He rolls over onto his back and tugs Tony into his chest, arms wrapped securely around his waist. He noses into the back of Tony’s neck, which sends a shiver through him that has nothing to do with the cold. 

“A bit of cold is not going to be the thing to off me, sweetheart, that’d be _so_ anticlimactic it’s not even funny.” 

A pause. 

“What about the fact that you’re still trying to lose weight, then?” Steve asks.

Tony freezes for just a moment before recovering, purposefully relaxing his muscles. 

“That’s—not important, and also not true, while we’re at it, I’m perfectly happy with—“

“Tony,” says Steve. 

There’s a quiet desperation to it that has Tony swallowing thickly, the words to retort caught in his throat. 

“I know I’ve told you this before, but when I’m around you...when I’m around you, when I’m with you, I—it just feels, right. I’m not thinking about Avengers business, or, or all the things I missed while I was in the ice. It’s just me, and it’s just you, and—I want you to feel comfortable around me too, I want you to feel like you can tell me if something’s wrong.” Tony hears him swallow. “Because lately, it’s like...it’s like you’re drawing away. And I can feel it, and I don’t know what to do.” 

Tony folds under those words, under the tremble in Steve’s voice. He’s helpless against the way his next breath shudders and shatters and breaks apart at the seams. Shaking breaths claw their way up his throat, devolve rapidly into sobs, and all of the stress, all of the frustration and the anger and the fear and burning need for more, more, _more_ , suddenly it comes crashing down around him, suddenly he’s turning in the circle in the circle of Steve’s arms and burrowing into his shirt.

“Oh, Tony.” 

It rings out with abject sadness, and for some reason it has Tony jerking away in an instant, horrified.

He scrambles toward the edge of the bed and stands up, ignores the sharp pain that twists through his head, the dizziness that descends down over him and the nausea that roils in his gut. 

“I’m fine,” he says, rubbing harshly at his eyes. “You don’t need to go all—you don’t need to play nursemaid, I’m _not_ your best girl, Rogers.” 

“No, you’re not,” Steve agrees evenly, calm, so fucking _calm_ that it almost grates at him. “You’re my boyfriend. And I’m worried about you, because I’m starting to think we have very different definitions of ‘fine.’”

“What do you want me to say?” he grits out, “want me to tell you I starve myself like a teenager with self-esteem issues? That it? The exercise, maybe, or the—the—“ he clenches his hands into fists, so tight that his knuckles turn white with it, digs his fingernails into the skin of his palms. 

Steve looks stricken. “Tony—“

“I have some work in the lab, uh, urgent, top-secret, that sort of thing.” 

He flees. 

* * *

He sprawls himself out on the floor of his lab, pale moonlight streaming in through the full-length window. He takes even breaths, measures the length of time between each heartbeat, feels a stab of panic when he realises that occasionally, it’s not regular, a beat is missed. 

Tony knows the science. He knows that his BPM has dropped significantly, he knows how the human body adapts to a lack of calories. 

He _knows_ it’s going to catch up to him, during a mission, during work, it already _has_ in a way, if the horrified expression etched into Steve’s features was anything to go by — the look on his face has burnt itself into the back of his eyelids at this rate. 

He knows all of that, and yet, even now, he looks down at the way his stomach protrudes just slightly and feels shame twist inside his chest, sharp and hot. Even now, he feels an almost compulsive urge to take his third appetite suppressant of the day, to exercise more than he did yesterday, to weigh himself and scrutinise how his body looks while he stands up on the edge of the tub. 

It’s horrible, and suffocating, and he sort of wants to bang his head against a wall until all of it falls silent, until those thoughts and desires and fantasies have been forcibly eradicated from his mind.

He’s had his stints with drugs, with alcohol, but neither of those things had gripped onto him so quickly, so efficiently, so _entirely_ , until all he thinks and breathes and feels is _control_ , calorie-counting, and body-checking and burning lungs and aching muscles. 

Laying on the cold floor at this moment, feeling the remaining warmth it leaches from his skin, he feels like he’s hit the lowest of lows, and he’s not sure how to even _begin_ getting back up.

Because he will get up.

Tony Stark always gets up.

But right now, it feels like a monumental task, a treacherous trek up a steep mountain, that shakes and crumbles even when he reaches the crest, even when he looks out at rolling plains and low-hanging clouds and various shades of ochre. 

An hour crawls by. His muscles protest the hard ground. DUM-E wheels up to him with a questioning beep and stays by Tony’s side when he doesn’t move. 

He hears a knock at the tinted window. JARVIS relays Steve’s voice. 

“Tony? Is there any chance I could come in?”

He remains silent. 

Steve sighs. “Tony, I know you’re in there. I—you don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to. Maybe I could, uh, talk at you? Is that okay?” 

After a beat or two, he hears Steve sit down on the other side of the glass. 

“When I was growing up, uh, I’m sure you know this, but food was pretty scarce. Money was tight.” He pauses. “It confused me, when I first realised what might be happening. I didn’t push, when I think I should’ve, I didn’t—I didn’t do a lot of things, because I didn’t want to overstep, and I didn’t want to be wrong. I did some research, and I’d be lying if I said I’m an expert, or not confused about a few things, but I want to be here for you, Tony. I want you to be okay. The team needs you, the world needs you, _I_ need you. You don’t have to come out, but I—“ his voice trembles, has a certain rasp to it that Tony knows means Steve is crying, “—I’m worried. I’m worried, and I love you, Tony. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.” 

Apparently, this is just an emotional rollercoaster of a day all round, because Tony registers that his face is wet with tears, his throat tight with all the words that try desperately to reach his lips. 

He feels about a million different shades of awful, but something about Steve’s words, the shaky tone of his voice, has Tony slowly lifting himself up from the ground and approaching the doors. 

“JARVIS, transparent,” he says. 

The windows shift, flicker for just a moment, and Steve jumps a bit, clearly startled, before scrambling to his feet. His face is blotchy and red, stray tears clinging to his cheeks. 

Tony steps out through the doors wordlessly, winding his arms around Steve’s waist. Visible relief paints itself across Steve’s face as he returns the embrace fiercely, strong arms wrapping around Tony’s back and drawing him in close. He nuzzles into the crook of Tony’s neck, breaths still hitching a little on every inhale. Tony presses in further, until he can hear the steady thrum of Steve’s heart, until he can feel the warmth that he radiates, and the way it seeps into his own skin the longer they stand there, grounded. He smooths his hands up to Steve’s shoulder blades, lingers there until Steve’s shuddery breaths even out.

This ugly, twisted _thing_ that’s taken up residence inside his head seems hellbent on tearing his life apart at the seams, on taking everything it can away from him. 

He’s not for the life of him letting it take Steve.

Not even when his thoughts are a riot inside his head, not even when they whisper to him, ask him what Steve’s feeling as he runs his hands along his back, along his sides, asks him how Steve could ever look at him and see anything but imperfection and mistakes and design flaws. 

He thinks, as Steve pulls away to look at him, to run gentle fingers along the side of his face, that Steve _does_ look at him and see imperfection, right now it’s almost glaringly obvious, staring him right in the face. 

And yet, despite all of that? Despite everything he’s come to believe over the last few months?

He stays.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering writing a part two for this, but for now, that's it! 
> 
> If you're someone who's currently struggling with an eating disorder, please know that there are resources you can access, both generally and depending on the country you're in. eatingdisorderconfession.tumblr.com is a good place to start, you'll find a directory there for various recovery resources :) 
> 
> If you're someone who's recovering from an eating disorder I wholly empathize and I wish you luck in your continued recovery! <3


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